


Christmas Fantasia

by consultingkaty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock in Stockings, away from 221B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingkaty/pseuds/consultingkaty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock grants John's Christmas Wish</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Fantasia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forsciencejohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsciencejohn/gifts).



"Un-fucking-believable, Sherlock!"John's voice was raised to be heard over the rush of water as he stood in the shower in the en suite. "Arrested for soliciting in a pub! Seriously!" It was coming up on midnight and John was bone tired, but damned if he was going to bed without a shower first. 

The case that had beckoned Sherlock, and thus John, away from Baker Street the day before Christmas had finally wrapped. But not before John had spent the better part of the evening tramping through the squelching mud fields of the Kent countryside, while Sherlock had buggered off to who-knows-where. Well. John certainly knew now. Fucking posing as a bloody up-market rent-boy down at the local pub was where. And it worked too. Mister Cheekbones had cranked up the charm and managed to hook their culprit. He had also garnered the attention of an off-duty PC, stopped by for an after-shift pint. And so, the rest of John's night had been spent at the local constabulary, attempting to convince the arresting officer that Sherlock was not actually the hooker he certainly appeared to be, but rather the world's only Consulting Dick. Detective. 

The process was not at all aided by one Mr. Martin Lowe, emerald thief, and very unsatisfied customer. He insisted on announcing, quite loudly to be heard over John's defense of Sherlock and Sherlock's rapid-fire walk-through of his deductive process, that Sherlock not only was definitely for sale, but that he had been very explicit regarding exactly what services he would provide Lowe. 

"Should have left you there until morning, you berk," John continued as he exited the shower and wrapped a fluffy white towel around his hips. He scowled at the mirror as he passed, but his head of rage was starting to lose its strength. The steam and warmth of the shower had washed away the majority of his anger, leaving him ready to crawl into bed. And if Sherlock thought he was sharing after tonight...Well, he could bloody well bunk on the floor, the arse. Confident in his abilities to enforce the new sleeping arrangements for the night, John swung open the en suite door and stepped out into the main room. 

Black silk. Black fucking silk. Against creamy pale skin. Acres of it. Sherlock stood next to the bed, suit in a heap on the floor at his feet, Belstaff thrown over the back of the nearby chair. He shifted his weight in a gesture that John would interpret as nervousness in anyone else. John watched, captivated, as the detective's toes flexed against the black silk that held them. Silk that encased his legs, over strong calves and bony knees, and ended at the muscular swell of defined thighs with a swirl of lace. Suspenders lashed tight over his thighs, holding the silk stockings taunt as they strain against the satin belt at his waspish waist. John's eyes finally came to rest on the bulge of Sherlock's half-erect cock, held but not remotely contained by a pair of lace-trimmed panties. He was vaguely aware of the towel falling from suddenly limp fingers, but the thought seemed far too abstract to be of importance.

"What--"John licked his suddenly dry lips and tried again. "Was this--for the um, the case?" For Lowe? Just how far had Sherlock planned to take his charade? The thought of Sherlock willingly submitting to the touch of that man, or, really anyone else, was enough to dampen John's arousal and he looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Merry Christmas, John," Sherlock offered, as though that somehow explained everything. He gestured toward the bedside table and the bottle of champagne that rested on ice with two flutes beside it. "A cheeky drink, a naughty wink...isn't that how these things go?" Sherlock suddenly looked unsure and John was reminded of exactly how inexperienced and at times vulnerable Sherlock could be, despite all of his bravado. "It's not--it's for you John, not the case." Again, he shifted his weight and waved a hand down his body as though to make certain that John understood what he was talking about. "This--you did want this. I know you did." He sucked in a deep breath that John knew so well. 

John crossed the short distance between the two of them in three quick steps and laid a single finger across Sherlock's lips before the onslaught of deductions could begin. "Hush. You knew, you brilliant man. Of course you did. You know me, you know my fantasies." Beneath his finger, Sherlock nodded, his eyes wide. "That's enough, Sherlock. I don't need to know how, I just want to know why?" He lifted his finger and sat on the edge of the bed.

"It's Christmas."

"So it is. And you're celebrating in lingerie?" John asked. He wrapped on hand around Sherlock's slim wrist and pulled him down to sit beside him. 

"No." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in frustration. "I forget things. I get distracted. John, I know that. And you know I do," he hesitated, and dipped his head. Dark curls masked his eyes as he peered up through thick lashes to study John as he spoke. "This, though. Christmas. It's important to you. So I remember. I thought of purchasing you a gift, but you always say that these things should be personal--should take thought. So what better gift could I give you than the gift of my thoughts unraveling yours?" 

"So you worked out what I had fantasized about, since you're both the subject, and the only person capable of working that out, and you decided to give me that fantasy?" 

"Yes," Sherlock responded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not good?"

"No. Not good," John answered, as he reached over to cup Sherlock's jaw. "Brilliant," he concluded, pulling Sherlock in to meet his lips. 

Sherlock's answering sigh was lost in the brush of their lips, but John could feel the tension melt out of his lover's body as their kiss became more heated. Sherlock eventually broke away to bury his face against the curve of John's neck, nipping and licking at the tendons that jumped and strained beneath his mouth. John couldn't stop the whimper that fell from his lips as Sherlock blew a gentle breath along the tongue dampened trail. 

John tangled a hand in Sherlock's dark curls as the detective bend to suckle at first one of John's pebbled nipples, then the other. Nimble fingers flickered over the one not occupying his mouth, and soon John was squirming against his touch.

"Please," John panted, pulling back to brush a feather-light touch against the top of Sherlock's stockings. Sherlock reached for the clasp beneath John's fingers, but John stilled his hand. "No, leave them," he ordered. "Leave all of it. I want you just like this, stockings, suspenders, and naughty little panties pushed to the side." 

"God, yes," Sherlock groaned, then stood, hi s lithe body sinuously flexing and flowing as he turned to crawl back onto the bed on his hands and knees. "Like this?" He asked, turning his head to look back over his shoulder at John. He wiggled his hips for good measure, and smirked as he heard John's answering moan behind him.

Strong hands clamped over his hips, holding him firm for a moment, a silent command for stillness. Once his obedience was confirmed, one hand slipped down to pull aside the satin of his panties and Sherlock shivered at the combined feeling of cool air hitting his previously covered flesh and the slide of the fabric against his sensitive skin. 

"You," John had to clench his eyes shut to block out the sight of Sherlock's pink hole, glistening wet and opened. "Fuck, you prepped. When did you prep?"

"While you were in the shower. You were too busy scolding me to notice what I was doing out here. And your showers are thirty-three percent longer when you're mad at me, so I had time." Again, Sherlock wiggled his hips, tempting and enticing John. 

John ran one teasing finger around Sherlock's rim, and watched as the flesh quivered beneath his touch, winking eagerly with nothing yet to close around. He circled his finger closer and closer before finally dipping just the tip in and out to feel the muscles clench. Beneath him, Sherlock bucked and whined. 

"John," he hissed, "need you." Sherlock thrust back again, his hips seeking John's own, rubbing his lover's thick erection against his arse. "Fuck me, please--" he choked off as John reached around to tug down the front of his panties and wrap a hand around his straining erection. With a low groan, Sherlock rutted into John's fist. "More, please," he begged, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Lube?" John asked, his own voice shuddering in pleasure at the feel of Sherlock grinding back into him. 

"Prepped. Still prepped," Sherlock bit off.

John swatted one lushly rounded arse cheek. "More, Sherlock. You know the rules."

"Table," Sherlock whimpered.

Leaning across Sherlock's back, John scrambled for the small bottle on the bedside table, knocking one of the thankfully empty glasses to the floor. He flipped the cap and managed to pour some of the clear liquid into his palm, then recapped the bottle and tossed it aside. Reaching down, he quickly spread the fluid over his aching cock before taking hold of Sherlock's hips once more. 

"Ready?" he asked.

"Now!" Sherlock growled, spreading his thighs while supporting himself on his elbows. And then John was there, his cock's head nudging slickly at Sherlock's entrance, then sliding in. Both men moaned with pleasure as Sherlock rocked back in time with John's thrust, burying his cock deep. 

"Christ, Sherlock," John panted. Each thrust and retreat dragged the edge of those panties against his cock, and the sight of them, stretched tight across Sherlock's frankly glorious arse was something that John promised himself he'd never forget. He lifted one hand to trail under the band of Sherlock's suspender belt, and was rewarded with the feeling of Sherlock shivering beneath him. "Fuck, Sherlock, how you look..." 

"Like your fantasy?" Sherlock gasped.

"Better." John swept one hand up Sherlock's back to tangle in his hair at the base of his skull and tug with just enough strength to force his head back. "God! Sherlock, fuck! I'm so close. Come on, Sherlock, come in those panties." 

Sherlock couldn't respond, could only thrust back, harder, onto John's cock as the peak of his pleasure drew closer, blurring the edges of his vision. John drove into him, his movements beginning to lose their rhythm as he too came closer to falling. Their moans turned animalistic as their pace intensified, until suddenly Sherlock mind was filled with white-noise silence and he was coming, coming, and clenching tight around John's cock. Then John was there too, grunting his release as his hips stuttered against Sherlock and he collapsed against the younger man's back. 

Eventually John managed to roll himself off of Sherlock and onto his side. "That was brilliant. Best Christmas present ever," he announced. 

Beside him, Sherlock was gingerly unclipping his suspenders to pull down his soaking panties. He paused to look at John. "Better than the preserved badger fetus I got you last year?"

John wrinkled his nose at the memory, and Sherlock tossed the ruined panties towards the bathroom door. "And I only got you a book on Victorian beekeeping."


End file.
